The Ragged Lady
by Deadwoodpecker
Summary: This is Molly's story.


Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Molly Carpenter could have been standing naked in the living room and she would not feel the horror, the utter panic, the moment her mother—the mother who was meant to be gone with the Jawas—entered the living room, plopped down on the sofa, and fumbled for the remote. A coughing fit took Charity while Molly stood near the window, imprisoned in a beam of light.

 _This is what it feels like moments before your death_ , thought Molly. That's why time had slowed, why her heart was the Hammer of Thor in her chest, and why blood was pumping furiously through her veins. Her mind knew what her body didn't: she was about to die.

Molly was dressed in a ripped shirt, a short skirt, and heavy boots.

Molly was wearing make-up. Charity had strict rules on make-up: only fallen women wore it anywhere but church.

Molly was home far too early, as she had cut class, thinking her mother out doing errands.

Blood rushed down to the tips of her fingers. The moment of discovery elongated. The longer it lasted, the more frantically Molly's heart hammered a forbidden rhythm in her chest. Her cheeks felt numb, and she… felt quite unlike herself. Still, her mother did not turn her head. _The Larry Fowler Show_ came on. Molly watched, disbelieving, as Charity—What Comes In Goes Out So Don't Fill Your Mind With Garbage Charity—paused on the show, watching as two women brawled over a short, smug-looking fat man.

Molly's eyes fluttered shut.

Molly caught her mother watching something she normally criticized.

The minutes wore on. Larry Fowler settled the women down with promises of revenge against the one who was clearly at fault: the fat man. Molly's sunbeam prison continued to hold her. Charity continued to not turn her head. Molly took a tiny step, her heavy boots sliding over the thick carpet with the barest of whispers. Charity did not move. Molly took another couple of steps. Her breathing was loud, audible. Still, her mother did not take her attention off Larry Fowler.

 _Larry Fowler saves the day_ , thought Molly as she slipped behind the couch. She would have to unpack the Thank You cards her mother had given her for her ninth birthday and send him one. She imagined him receiving a purple-flowered and lacy bit of stationary: _Thank you. You saved me from my mother. She would have fucking killed me._ He would probably invite her and Charity to come on the show, and reveal the way Molly liked to dress—who she liked to be—to Charity.

A horrified giggle escaped her.

Charity reached up to scratch the back of her head.

Molly finally turned and ran up the stairs as fast as she could. The beginnings of a headache grew behind her eyes, like she had just eaten a massive amount of ice cream in a short amount of time. Breathless, she threw off her tattered skirt, her t-shirt, and her boots. She crammed them in a plastic bag, intending to take them to the treehouse, her haven away from her righteous parents.

 _Her parents._

However much her relationship with her mother was imperiled by the vagaries of finding out who, exactly, she wanted to be, Molly's relationship with her father was quite another story. Michael Carpenter was a Good Man—capital letters intended. He was patient, he was kind, he was long-suffering, he wasn't proud, he did not boast, and he had never, not even once, failed Molly. But he was all of those things to the rest of the world, which was why he held a Calling that few even knew about. He was a Knight of the Cross, and aside from his work as a contractor, he went all around the world with his Sword that sheltered a nail from the Crucifixion, and battled darkness.

He would be baffled as to why Molly wanted to wear dark lipstick, dark clothes, and experiment with hair color, smoke a little weed, and kiss a couple guys she didn't love.

Molly sat on the bed, wearing only her underwear, and stared down at her fingers. Her father battled darkness. There were evil creatures. There were demons. He worked with a wizard from time to time, and he was her parents's only friend who could be considered in the same area code as cool and edgy. His magic was real.

 _Something_ had happened downstairs. Her skin was still buzzing with it. Her head was still pounding. But Molly pushed all that aside. Everything felt different now. When Molly was a child, she was sure she'd feel like a completely different person when she started her first period—she'd be a woman, she'd be almost grown up. But a period turned out to be messy and just another chore. But this… this was what she'd been looking for, trying out new clothes, reading new books, hanging out with new people. She'd been searching for it the last two years, she thought, when she'd first felt restless and out of place. This was it. It was _here_ and it was _now_.

 _Show me,_ Molly willed it. _Show me it's real. Show me it's all real._

Her warm hands cooled. The tips of her fingers went blue with cold, then fat, unreal snowflakes gathered at her nails and spread down until her hands were coated with ice. It lasted for a minute, then it melted back where it came from. But Molly didn't care. She did it. It was real.

 _Magic._


End file.
